A man's gotta do... something about his hair

Does anybody still fancy Russell Crowe? There was a time when everybody did. He blazed on to the screen as this enormous heart-throb, forging a gladiatorial path of lust through the cinemas of the Western world. He looked set to grapple with the female libido for a good couple of decades.

He was a new Gibson, a younger Connery, a twenty-first-century Ford. Where Brad Pitt or George Clooney were kind of fine if you liked that sort of thing, Russell Crowe was a hands-down, no-argument, across-the-board silver-screen god.

And suddenly he has become this... twerp. It started at the Bafta Awards last year where (you may remember) Russell flew into a violent rage because his special acceptance poem was cut from the TV broadcast. Not a sexy combination of motive and result. Quietly reading a sensitive bit of verse: mmm yes, come into my boudoir. Throwing a punch in the name of honour: delightful, let me help you out of that toga. Combining the two in a bizarre poetry tantrum: forgive me, I completely forgot it was hair-wash night.

This would actually have been the ideal moment to test these new 'female sexual dysfunction treatments' which the drug companies are claiming are the key to a golden future. Let's see whether Lady Viagra can repair the damage when the object of our lust is gripping a theatrical producer round the neck and shouting 'What about my rhymes?'

There was another glimpse of flapping Crowe a couple of months ago, when he turned violent in a Japanese restaurant and had to be restrained by Ross Kemp, the SAS hero from Ultimate Force. At first glance it looked very macho. Two big lads, a fight, an SAS angle. On second thoughts, it was just a couple of actors bickering near some overpriced sushi. It simply couldn't be more camp - and if you don't believe me, you try shouting 'Come back Russell, it's not worth it!' and see how it sounds.

Russell Crowe is now busy making a film called Master And Commander. If I'd heard that title three years ago, I would have been wriggling in my seat at the thought of Crowe dominating some kind of warship or battlefield. Now, I can't help wondering if Master And Commander is set in the back rooms of Old Compton Street. Not least because last week's news is that Russell has pushed up the budget by $150,000 after insisting on having his favourite hairdresser flown out first-class from Sydney, reportedly to touch up his greying roots.

That is Russell Crowe's problem in a nutshell. Women make very simple demands on their famous heart-throbs: either be the kind of guy who gets drunk and starts fights, or be the kind of guy who reads poetry, eats Japanese food and cares about his hair. Crowe is rattling between two preposterous extremes of modern manhood - much like Liam Gallagher, who threw himself into a brawl with some German mafiosi, got his teeth knocked out and hurried straight off for some expensive cosmetic dentistry.

You simply can't have it both ways, as I once said to Vinnie Jones when he launched a range of men's skincare products. (Vinnie countered with a long explanation of why footballers have to look good these days, adding: 'If you was a public figure, you'd make a lot more effort with your own appearance.' Charming to the last.)

It makes me long for an old-school tough guy like John Wayne or Robert Mitchum. John Wayne did not cry when his poetry was cut. Robert Mitchum, when advised to have his nose fixed, said: 'It's already been fixed - by four left hooks.'

This is only about fantasy. Our real-life boyfriends and husbands are welcome to display the full range of masculine traits, old and new: God bless them as they scratch their testicles while reading Marie Claire, or sob through the last scene of Titanic and flick straight over to the topless darts.

But with screen heart-throbs, there's no room for breadth. It's one thing or the other. We need to know if we're fantasising about this guy galloping to our rescue, or about ourselves galloping to his. Russell Crowe is floundering in the middle ground, and sinking fast.

The shameful thing is, I'd be furious if a man said the same thing about female sex symbols. I would take arms to defend Kate Winslet's right to gain weight and wear sneakers or Nell McAndrew's to burp and sweat in the jungle.

If a guy said this confused his fantasies, I'd chalk him down as a halfwit. What can I tell you? Maybe it's our turn to be the simpler sex.

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